


A Time of Peace

by inkleafclover



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Brief Sexy Times, Fluff, M/M, Pets, Slaves, What-If, romantic, slow, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-10-02 00:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20446373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkleafclover/pseuds/inkleafclover
Summary: '“You like him,” says Auguste.Laurent tenses—flushes. It’s evening, and they’re alone in Auguste’s chambers. The scent of the blossoms floats in through the wide-open balcony doors, the light from the setting sun turning the air pink. “I do not!” Laurent cries.Auguste smirks knowingly, as though Laurent’s denial has just confirmed something.Laurent makes a frustrated sound. Then he sags, all the fight rushing out of him. He falls back onto Auguste’s bed, burying his face amid the many-colored cushions.Auguste stifles a laugh.“It’s not funny,” Laurent grumbles.“You’re right, it’s not funny. It’s adorable,” Auguste says, flopping down beside him.'***What if Vere and Akielos made peace long ago? What if Auguste never died? What if their parents were alive? What if Laurent got a chance to grow up like a normal prince, surrounded by love... safe and cared for... and free to crush on handsome visiting Akielons...





	A Time of Peace

**Author's Note:**

> **Please read the tags and any warnings at the top. This is a work of (fan) fiction, and exists for entertainment purposes only.**
> 
> I wrote this little story after I got frustrated imagining like, what if Laurent had the chance to grow up under better circumstances, what if Akielos and Vere were at peace and Laurent never had to suffer what he suffered because his parents would have been alive, Auguste was alive etc.... And I needed to write what I imagined! PS. In this story, his evil uncle died long ago, yay! Please enjoy.

Auguste is brushing down his horse when he hears a familiar tread behind him. He smiles, and says, “I thought you had lessons.”

Laurent pauses outside the stall, looking guilty. “I wanted to go riding with you,” he says. Indeed, he’s already dressed for riding.

Auguste shakes his head, as amused as he is exasperated. “I thought you liked your lessons,” he says.

“I do,” Laurent replies. “Most of them. It’s just that Akielon is so boring.”

“Learning Akielon is important, you know,” Auguste says. “Especially now that our countries are at peace.”

Laurent scowls. “I don’t see why the Akielons can’t just learn to speak Veretian,” he mutters.

“The Akielons do speak Veretian, and well,” Auguste says, laughing.

Laurent seems taken aback. “Really?” he asks.

“Yes. That’s why you’ve got to learn,” Auguste says. “It would be embarrassing if they spoke our language better than we spoke theirs, right?”

Laurent makes a face. “Can’t we please just go riding? I’ll study later, I promise,” he says.

Auguste sighs. Beckoning a servant, he says, “Go and tell my brother’s tutors that he’ll be forgoing his lessons for the day.”

Laurent beams.

“Go on,” Auguste tells Laurent, his cheek dimpling. “Get your horse.”

Laurent races off, already shouting for the stable boy.

Auguste smiles. He’s spoiling Laurent, and he knows it, but he can’t quite bring himself to feel bad. After all, who knows how long the peace with Akielos will last? A good, long while would be nice—Auguste would love for Laurent to grow up in a time without war—but a man has to be realistic. Just like war, peace is temporary. Better to indulge his little brother while he can.

✯

When King Theomedes and his son, Prince Damianos, arrive later that spring, Laurent discovers that Auguste was not exaggerating: The Akielons are every one of them fluent in Veretian. Laurent also finds that all the culture lessons in the world couldn’t have prepared him for the sight of an entire delegation of Akielons entering the throne room in garments the size of handkerchiefs, and he tells Auguste so during the welcoming feast, unfortunately causing Auguste to choke on his wine.

“They’re called chitons,” Auguste sputters, still wiping his mouth with an actual handkerchief. “It’s traditional Akielon dress, Laurent.”

“But Valery is wearing more than all of them combined,” Laurent hisses back, referring to Auguste’s pet, whose sheer, emerald tunic barely covers his torso, and making it so that Auguste has to cover most of his face to hide his mirth.

Despite the showy welcoming-feast and the dozens of toasts to fraternity and peace, however, the first days of the Akielon delegation’s stay at Arles are marred by skirmishes between the Veretian and Akielon soldiers. None of the fighting results in permanent injury, but even so, the Veretian courtiers start keeping their distance from the Akielon party after that, and the general atmosphere of the palace grows chilly. It’s only days later, when it becomes apparent that the two crown princes, Auguste and Damianos, are fast becoming friends, that relations slowly begin to thaw.

Damianos is nineteen, the same age as Auguste, so it comes as no surprise, really, that they get on so well. Aleron, for one, seems pleased that Auguste is setting an example for the soldiers. Laurent, for his part, doesn’t mind their friendship, at least at first. After a while, however, it starts to feel like Damianos is trying to keep Auguste all to himself; when he’s not asking Auguste to spar or to go riding, he’s dangling Akielon bed-slaves in front of him like candies. And more often than not, Laurent is stuck inside with his tutors, forced to watch the older boys having fun down in the yard without him.

All but fed up, Laurent hatches a plan: Early one morning, he sneaks into Auguste’s chambers, hoping to get him up and out of the palace before Damianos has so much as roused. Auguste is still fast asleep and, as usual, far from alone: Valery is there, along with two of the raven-haired Akielon bed-slaves, their chests rising and falling peacefully in the soft, predawn light.

“Auguste,” Laurent whispers, heedless of the others as he shakes his brother’s shoulder. “Auguste.”

“Nnn,” Auguste groans, slowly opening his eyes. When he sees Laurent, he smiles. “You’re up early.”

“Let’s go riding,” Laurent says.

The slaves are stirring now, yawning and peering up at Laurent. Valery regards Laurent good-naturedly. The Akielon slaves, on the other hand, seem rather embarrassed.

“Just a bit longer,” Auguste says, snuggling deeper into the blankets.

This would’ve been funny if Laurent weren’t so frustrated. “Auguste,” he whines.

Auguste sighs. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Valery, can you go wake Damen?”

“No!” Laurent cries. Then, seeing Auguste’s bewildered expression, adds, “I mean—I’d rather go riding with just you.”

“What?” says Auguste. His is expression is amused, if a bit perplexed. “You don’t like him?”

“I—” Laurent begins, but he can’t go on. He doesn’t want to be impolite, but he also doesn’t want to lie.

Auguste laughs. “Oh, come on. You’ll love him. You just have to get to know him a little better,” he says. Then he tells Valery, “Go on.”

“But—” Laurent starts.

Auguste ruffles Laurent’s hair, and says, “Just give him a chance. Please?”

Laurent wilts—Auguste hardly ever says please like that—and swallows his unspoken protests, defeated.

Damianos and Auguste are speaking Akielon. They’re riding a ways in front of Laurent, their horses walking side by side, picking their way along a rocky stream-bed. The canopy shifts overhead, mantling them in light and shadow.

Laurent urges his horse forward, listening to the two of them conversing in Akielon. He didn’t realize that Auguste spoke so well. In contrast, Laurent can’t pick out more than a few basic words; he’s really been neglecting his studies. If only the Akielon language weren’t so damn complicated….

Laurent watches Damianos mouth move easily around his native tongue. His voice is playful… intelligent. Soothing. His shoulders are broad, his dark hair thick and shiny. His jaw, his whole face is chiseled as though by a skilled sculptor.

“Laurent?”

Laurent jumps, and his horse whinnies beneath him. Auguste is staring at him, clearly just having asked him a question. Laurent blushes. “Yes?”

Auguste chuckles, then asks him something in Akielon.

“Oh! Of course,” Laurent replies. He has no idea what Auguste just asked him… but he’ll be damned if he lets it show. He catches Damianos’s eye, and quickly looks away, embarrassed.

Auguste looks at Laurent, then at Damianos, and rolls his eyes. He says something in Akielon that makes Damianos smile.

And gods, in that moment Laurent wishes more than anything that he had studied the language harder—that he could understand them.

✯

Several weeks after the Akielon delegation departs, Auguste finds Laurent sitting alone in the library with a book in his lap.

“There you are,” says Auguste. He comes to stand next to Laurent, who seems suddenly self-conscious. “What are you reading?”

“Just something my tutor gave me,” Laurent replies.

Auguste looks closer. “That’s Akielon,” he observes, surprised. “Theogony?”

“Yes,” says Laurent.

Auguste claps him on the shoulder. “So studious,” he remarks.

“Of course I am,” Laurent replies, defensive.

Auguste take a moment to consider him. Then he says, “I was coming to see if you wanted to go hunting with us.”

Laurent looks incredibly tempted, but in the end, he shakes his head. “I have lessons soon,” he says.

Auguste grins. “Next time then,” he says.

“Next time,” Laurent agrees.

Auguste claps his shoulder one more time, then takes his leave. Laurent aches to follow him, to leave the heavy old books and go riding, but he masters himself; he can’t let himself be an embarrassment to his family and his country… and most of all, he can’t embarrass himself in front of Prince Damianos the next time he visits.

✯

Many years later, King Theomedes makes his second journey to Arles. By then, the peace is more settled; trade between Akielos and Vere is becoming commonplace, and—relieved of the pressures of constant warfare—the Veretian people are thriving. As such, the days preceding the Akielons’ arrival are filled with a sense of anticipatory excitement, a stark contrast to the cloud of wary tension attendant on their previous visit.

Laurent, now on the cusp of seventeen, is reading in his chambers when the first trumpets sound, heralding the Akielon delegation’s impending arrival. Putting down his book, he goes to the edge of the balcony, and rests his palms on the smooth, stone balustrade, watching what looks from this distance to be a shimmering snake winding its way up the palace road. At length, he calls one of the servants to help him dress, and ends up going through a dozen and more outfits before finally settling on one he finds satisfactory.

The welcoming feast is a convivial affair, full of performances and wine, soft breads and suckling pigs, and silver trays heavy with sweetmeats. Most of the courtiers are drunk before sunset, but even so, the wine just keeps on flowing. Some time after the moon rises, Auguste leads Damianos out into the gardens, and after a time, Laurent screws up his courage, and follows them. He finds them strolling near the largest fountain, the light from the hanging lanterns warm on their faces. They’re speaking to each other in Akielon.

Steeling himself, Laurent approaches the pair now standing near the fountain. Damianos is the first one to turn. Their eyes meet, and Laurent stops, all the breath ribboning out of him.

“Oh, Laurent,” Auguste cries, pleased. “We were just talking about you.”

Akielon. Auguste spoke Akielon, and Laurent understood. His neck and face are starting to feel dangerously hot, but before he can lose his nerve, he looks at Damianos and says, in stilted but intelligible Akielon, “It’s very nice to see you again, Damianos.”

Damianos smiles. “You as well, Laurent,” he says.

“How was the journey from Akielos?” Laurent asks.

“Long,” Damianos replies with a chuckle. “I enjoy riding, of course, but not the slow, caravan kind.”

Laurent nods in understanding. He glances at Auguste, who’s watching the exchange with obvious pleasure. Laurent’s heart leaps. “Why don’t we go riding tomorrow? Or hunting, if you like,” he suggests.

Before Damianos can reply, Auguste leaps forward, laughing and throwing his arm around Laurent. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night,” Auguste says. “What do you say, Damen?”

Damianos is still smiling. When he speaks, he looks at Laurent, his brown eyes dark and fathomless. “Sounds good to me.”

The following morning, they set off to go hunting, accompanied by a mixed party of Akielons and Veretians. Auguste successfully brings down a sanglier, as does Damianos, and another evening passes in a haze of revelry and wine, the tables heavy with the hard-won bounty of the hunt.

On the third day of the Akielons’ visit, Laurent, Auguste, and Damianos go riding. They go riding the day after that as well. Laurent’s lessons take up most of the fifth and sixth day, and but on the day after, Laurent wakes up early, and accompanies Damianos and Auguste down to the outdoor arena where Auguste trains. The servants open up the armory, and Laurent takes up his place on the sidelines to watch his brother and Damianos spar.

The air rings with the sound of steel on steel; they're both seasoned warriors, and far beyond the use of practice swords. Even so, Laurent watches them with his breath in his throat. Auguste is wearing his training leathers, but Damianos—Damianos is wearing the handkerchief. Laurent follows his movements, watching his muscles bunch and release when he parries, watching his calves tighten as he meets Auguste step for step. Damianos doesn’t even bother stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow; he just keeps pushing. When Auguste finally bests Damianos, they put aside their swords and shake hands. The servants spring forward then, offering refreshment.

Having drained his cup, Damianos looks over at Laurent. “Do you want to try?” he asks him.

Laurent starts. “I—”

“Go easy on him,” Auguste interrupts.

“Practice swords,” Damianos agrees.

Laurent stiffens, his face reddening. “I can spar with a real sword just fine,” he says, the words coming out rather shrill.

“Better safe than sorry,” Damianos says. He pulls a towel down his face, then tells one of the servants to go and fetch the practice swords.

Laurent tosses a glare at Auguste.

Auguste simply grins.

“Let’s see your stance,” Damianos says when they’re ready.

Laurent, feeling more than a little self-conscious despite his bravado, takes a deep breath, and slowly walks his way through one of the shorter Veretian sword-forms. He’s far from terrible—he’s been wielding a sword since the age of ten—but he’s painfully aware of how he appears compared to Auguste.

But when Laurent finishes the form, Damianos only nods, and raises his blunt sword.

The sight of Damianos standing there, sword at the ready, sparks something in Laurent. He steps forward, his shoulders and arms tensing, and swings.

Damianos parries. He dances backward, batting aside Laurent’s next few thrusts with ease. Then, with the air of one reaching a decision, he slips inside Laurent’s guard, and jabs.

Laurent is most certainly caught off guard, but he parries. Damianos recovers; Laurent parries again, then counters, and soon enough they’re fighting, really fighting. Laurent is sweating, his brain and his body working overtime to keep Damianos off him, and Damianos—though not nearly so taxed by this fight as his last one—can’t afford to look away from Laurent for even a moment. Auguste watches them from the sidelines, his expression caught somewhere between anxiety and pride.

When Damianos finally disarms Laurent, sending his practice sword flying, Laurent stands there for a moment, panting. Then he steps forward, and shakes Damianos’s hand. Auguste breathes an audible sigh of relief.

After taking refreshment, Damianos asks Laurent to step through one of the counters. Laurent obliges him, and Damianos watches him demonstrate the counter with a furrowed brow. He takes a step closer, reaching out with one hand. Then he stops, looking at Laurent. “May I?” he asks.

It takes Laurent a moment to fully realize that Damianos is asking permission to touch him. Somehow Laurent manages not to flush as he replies, “Yes.”

Damianos takes him gently by the arm. “If you raise your elbow a little—yes, like that—”

Laurent lets Damianos manipulate his arm. Damianos is speaking slowly and clearly, but Laurent can’t seem to derive meaning from his words; his face feels uncomfortably hot, and his brain feels like a seed head in the wind.

“Does that make sense?” Damianos asks.

“Um,” Laurent says. “I think so.”

Damianos’s mouth quirks in a half-smile.

Laurent’s belly does a backflip. Instinctively, he turns to look at Auguste. His brother appears to have been watching them the whole time; his eyes are sparkling with amusement. This only makes Laurent’s cheeks grow hotter. “Thank you,” Laurent tells Damianos, sidling awkwardly away from him.

“My pleasure,” Damianos says, then beckons one of his slaves.

But Laurent doesn’t stick around; with a muttered excuse to Auguste, he throws down his practice sword, and makes for the castle, going as fast as he can without running.

“You like him,” says Auguste.

Laurent tenses—flushes. It’s evening, and they’re alone in Auguste’s chambers. The scent of the blossoms floats in through the wide-open balcony doors, the light from the setting sun turning the air pink. “I do not!” Laurent cries.

Auguste smirks knowingly, as though Laurent’s denial has just confirmed something.

Laurent makes a frustrated sound. Then he sags, all the fight rushing out of him. He falls back onto Auguste’s bed, burying his face amid the many-colored cushions.

Auguste stifles a laugh.

“It’s not funny,” Laurent grumbles.

“You’re right, it’s not funny. It’s adorable,” Auguste says, flopping down beside him.

Laurent lifts his head just enough to pin his brother with a one-eyed glare, but Auguste doesn’t quail. Laurent pushes his face back into the pillows. “Don’t tell him,” he begs, his voice muffled.

Auguste frowns. “Of course I won’t tell him,” he says, sounding offended.

Laurent risks a peek at him. “You won’t?” he asks.

“Of course not!” Auguste says. “You can tell him yourself. When you’re ready.”

Laurent feels the blood drain from his face with dizzying suddenness. “I couldn't,” he croaks. The thought of telling Damianos that he—that he what? What would he even say?

Auguste shifts a little, then pats him gently on the back. “Hey. Don’t worry about it. There’s no rush,” he says.

“Isn’t there?” Laurent asks. “Damianos is a king’s heir, after all. If he’s not already betrothed, he will be soon.”

“He’s not,” Auguste says quietly. “Promised to anyone.”

Laurent lifts his head up so quickly his neck cracks.

Auguste laughs, a booming, happy sound. He reaches over to ruffle Laurent’s hair, giving chase when Laurent tries to squirm out of his reach. They tussle for a minute, then break apart, grinning.

“Come on,” Auguste says, standing. “We should pay father a visit.”

Still red-faced and grinning, Laurent pushes off the bed, and follows Auguste out into the hall.

On the night of Laurent’s seventeenth birthday, King Theomedes presents him with a slave.

“The finest in all Akielos,” Theomedes says. “If he is not satisfying, you may tell us, and we will replace him.”

Laurent regards the prostrated slave with a feeling of intense uncertainty. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches for him, tentatively threading his fingers through the soft, brown curls. “Thank you very much,” Laurent says. “I’m sure he will do nicely.”

Aleron nods approvingly. Auguste, too, makes some noises of approval, commenting on the slave’s coloring, his bearing. Across the room, two pets are expertly twirling flames to musical accompaniment, as well as the drunken cheers of a dozen courtiers.

Fingers still caught in the slave’s hair, Laurent looks across the table at Damianos. But Damianos is no longer at the table: He’s already halfway across the room, a slave on each arm, headed for the gardens.

A short time later, Laurent excuses himself from the celebration. No one seems to mind. Not knowing what else to do, he allows the slave to accompany him to his chambers. Once there, he seats himself on the edge of the bed as though the quilted mattress were made of finest glass.

The slave prostrates himself once again, pressing his forehead to the floor.

“Stand up,” Laurent says.

The slave stands, blushing. He keeps his eyes on the floor, not daring to meet Laurent’s eye. He is very pretty.

“What’s your name?” Laurent asks.

“I am Gemistus, Your Highness,” he replies in flawless Veretian. “It is my pleasure to serve you.”

“I’m sure it is,” Laurent says. His heart is pounding. Gemistus appears to be of an age with him. “Come here. Closer.”

Gemistus comes. Still, he won’t meet Laurent’s eye.

“Look at me,” Laurent instructs.

The slave obeys, his cheeks flushing an even deeper crimson. He bites his lip, coy; so different from any Veretian pet, though not unpleasantly so.

Laurent reaches out a hand, trails it alongs Gemistus’s cheek. His skin is quite soft. “You’ve been prepared?” he asks.

“I have, Your Highness. I have been saved for you,” Gemistus says breathlessly.

Laurent smiles. “How very Akielon,” he remarks.

Gemistus keeps his eyes on Laurent’s, waiting.

Laurent thinks about Damianos, strolling the gardens with a slave on each arm. Then he takes Gemistus’s hand, and draws him down onto the bed. “Would you like to please me?” he asks, trying to sound confident, like he’s done this a thousand times.

Gemistus’s eyes are shimmering. “Yes, Your Highness,” he breathes.

“Well then,” Laurent says, “go ahead.”

✯

Laurent’s whole body sings with the impact as his sword-edge finds Auguste’s. As a boy, he would’ve reeled back from such a blow, but now, at twenty-one, he parries and counters swiftly, leaving no openings, and his feet move of their own accord, sketching out patterns memorized long ago. He jabs; Auguste parries, grinning as he dances away, then darts in again, slashing. Laurent deflects, sunlight glinting off the blade of his sword. His complexion is going to be ruined.

When Auguste finally knocks Laurent into the dirt, Gemistus, who’s been watching from the sidelines, makes a mournful sound. Auguste helps Laurent up. Laurent dusts himself off.

Gemistus appears at his side, offering refreshment. “You were so close that time,” he says.

“He was not,” Auguste scoffs, accepting a cool drink from Valery.

Laurent is about to argue when the sound of running footsteps distracts him; a palace servant is running toward them, her expression feverish.

“Your Highnesses,” she says, panting. “The Akielons are arriving. They’ve been spotted on the palace road.”

Auguste grins. “Thank you for the news,” he says. Then he hands his sword to his attendants, and starts back toward the palace. “Well? What are you waiting for?” he asks Laurent.

With a jolt, Laurent hands his empty cup to Gemistus, and follows Auguste.

“Laurent,” says Damianos. “You look well.”

“You too,” Laurent replies awkwardly, clutching a towel in front of him.

The baths are bright with late-afternoon sunlight, and empty but for the two of them and a handful of slaves. One of the slaves is washing Damianos, gently emptying a pitcher of water over his broad, soapy shoulders.

Laurent didn’t expect to find Damianos here. He should have; Damianos is fresh from a long journey, after all, and Laurent well knows how good a nice, hot bath feels after a month or more on the road. Laurent holds himself very rigid, trying to seem poised and dignified even as he flounders internally, wondering how to proceed.

“You came to bathe?” Damianos asks, his expression quizzical.

In answer, Laurent tosses his towel aside, and beckons Gemistus closer. The slave, also naked, kneels obediently, and starts washing him. After a moment, Damianos makes a sound. It sounds like— “Are you laughing?” Laurent demands.

“No. I mean yes. Sorry,” Damianos says, not looking sorry in the least. “It’s just that—I didn’t think Veretians were capable of shyness.”

Laurent feels himself flushing. But he doesn’t look away. “I am not shy,” he says, defiant.

“It’s okay if you are,” Damianos says, his mouth twitching.

“I’ve just told you that I’m not,” Laurent says cooly.

“Okay, okay,” says Damianos. He closes his eyes for a moment, apparently enjoying the slave’s attentions. When he opens them, he smiles, and says, “You know, the first time I came here, I was amazed. It was one thing to hear about the Veretian court, and quite another to, well—” He trails off. “It was shocking, to say the least.”

“Rich to hear a man who walks around in a loincloth call anything shocking,” Laurent observes.

Damianos stiffens, taken aback. Then he laughs, the sound of it rolling over the baths like thunder.

Laurent can’t help it; he smiles. And then he’s laughing too, though not nearly as loudly as Damianos. When they finally calm down, they gaze at each other for several long moments. Then the spells breaks, and Laurent turns, hiding his rosy face from view.

If Damianos finds anything about this behavior contrary, he doesn’t comment on it. “Your Akielon has gotten much better,” he says. “It’s like you’re fluent.”

Laurent tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “My tutor is very good,” he replies.

“Clearly,” says Damianos.

Laurent smiles. At length, he sinks into the bath to soak. Every now and then, he catches Damianos watching him with a curious light in his eyes… the kind of look that heats Laurent up from the inside, hotter than any bath.

“This time we use edges,” Laurent says, hefting the blade he’s grown accustomed to.

“Are you sure?” Damianos asks, glancing at Auguste.

But Auguste only grins, and says, “He’s been practicing.”

Damianos shrugs. Then he unsheathes his sword.

Sparring with Damianos is different from sparring with Auguste; to fight Auguste is to battle strength and smarts. But fighting Damianos just feels like fighting a stone wall: He never falters, never yields. There are no openings. It feels like it’s pointless to even try.

Yet Laurent tries; he attacks Damianos with everything he has, with everything he’s learned. He’s been thinking about this day for months—years even. Ever since Damianos left Vere nearly four years ago, Laurent has spent his waking hours imagining the moment he beats Damianos. Laurent can practically taste it: Damianos’s sword in the dirt, a stunned expression on his face, a flicker of pride in his eyes.

But of course, that’s not how it goes; after a few minutes of intense sparring, Damianos simply pushes Laurent into the dirt, and wrenches the sword from his hand, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

Laurent rolls out from under him, breathing hard. Composing himself, he sticks out his hand.

Damianos clasps it. “That was a good fight,” he says, breathless.

Laurent doesn’t want to admit to himself—or anyone else—how much those words mean to him. He accepts a glass of water from Gemistus, searching for composure.

“I told you he’s been practicing,” Auguste says, his voice flush with pride as he claps Laurent solidly on the shoulder.

Laurent smiles, a small, pleased laugh escaping him.

“So you did,” says Damianos, his eyes on Laurent.

Laurent’s belly dissolves in butterflies.

Later that week, the three of them play at mounted archery, firing arrows at targets while riding circuits around a dirt track. Laurent is quite good at this, but once again, he’s nowhere near as skilled as Auguste and Damianos. All the same, Gemistus cheers him on from the sidelines, and when they’re done, Damianos inspects the targets with raised eyebrows, glancing at Laurent in surprise.

Later still, on the first sunny day following a stretch of rain that keeps them indoors for some time, they ride their horses along the edge of one of the smaller forests, conversing easily in Akielon. They race each other all the way to the lake (Auguste wins), and take their lunch by the water. Damianos compliments Laurent’s tunic. Laurent hides his pleasure by way of finding a discus-shaped stone to skip across the water.

Laurent hardly lets himself believe it, but he can’t deny what he sees with his own eyes; over the past few weeks, he’s caught Damianos staring at him more times than he can count. He’s caught Auguste watching him too, a knowing look in his eyes. He’s also happened upon Damianos and Auguste conversing in low voices a few times; they always fall silent immediately when they notice Laurent’s approach. He recalls these moments each night before falling asleep, turning them over like smooth bits of ocean glass plucked from the coastline. And like ocean glass, he doesn’t fully understand how these moments should have come to exist; in the quiet of Laurent’s chambers, Damianos’s attention seems a kind of miracle: a smooth pebble shaped by the eons, and washed up onto his beach by chance.

Late one night, after yet another evening of contests and revelry, Laurent decides to take some air out on the balcony. He leans against the balustrade, gazing up at the stars, and breathing in the warm, green air. The gardens below are golden with lantern light, and full of Veretians and Akielons, their mingled laughter floating up like an offering to the gods. Laurent smirks, thinking of all the people who told his father that a peace with Akielos would never be possible.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Damianos says.

Laurent’s heart leaps up into his throat; Damianos is standing there in his chiton, the lantern light making a crown in his hair. Laurent swallows, and says, “Not at all.”

Damianos steps forward, joining him. His eyes sweep over the gardens… and then over Laurent. “It’s a beautiful night,” he says, not looking at the night.

Laurent can feel his body warming under Damianos’s gaze. His first instinct is to make some witty reply, a diversion. But he checks himself. “It is,” he says instead, meeting Damianos’s eyes.

Damianos looks down, then back up, as though shy. “We can speak your language… if you want,” he says.

“This is fine,” Laurent replies. “Why? Am I awful?”

“No! No, I told you the other day: You sound fluent,” Damianos says.

Laurent can’t suppress his smile, so he ducks his head. “I practice with Gem,” he says. “And Auguste.”

“It shows,” Damianos says. “How often do you spar with Auguste?”

Laurent shrugs. “Four or five times a week, usually,” he says.

“That makes sense. I hardly recognized your sword work; you’ve improved so much,” says Damianos.

Laurent laughs nervously; he’s starting to feel genuinely flustered, so he looks down at the gardens, hoping to gather himself.

“We leave for Akielos in three days,” Damianos says softly.

Laurent stills. When he looks at Damianos, the expression in his eyes is new, and a little bit frightening. “Three days?” Laurent echoes.

“Yes,” Damianos replies. He searches Laurent’s face, his eyes unblinking. Intense. “Will you go riding with me tomorrow?”

Laurent blinks. “Yes?” he says.

“Just the two of us,” Damianos says.

Laurent’s chest squeezes, his cheeks heating. “Yes,” he says again, his voice gone thin.

Damianos smiles, his eyes twinkling, and says, “I hope I’m not being too forward.”

“You’re not,” says Laurent.

Damianos’s smile widens. He reaches for Laurent’s hand, then stops. “May I?” he asks.

Every nerve alight, Laurent offers Damianos his hand, watching with a kind of surreal wonder as Damianos brings it to his lips, and kisses it. His lips are gentle and real.

“I look forward to riding with you tomorrow,” Damianos says, only reluctantly letting go of Laurent’s hand. Then, with a final, bashful smile, and a wish for a good night, he walks away.

Laurent stares after him. Trembling ever so slightly, he runs his fingers over the back of his hand, and the lingering warmth from Damianos's kiss.

“Would you like me to fetch a book for you?” Gemistus asks when they return to Laurent’s chambers. “Or something hot to drink?”

“Just a book is fine,” Laurent says, flopping back onto the bed.

Gemistus brings a book, a thin tome bound in greenish leather.

Laurent starts to open it, then stops, closing his eyes, and lets the book come to rest on his chest.

Gemistus smiles. “Would you like me to help you undress?” he asks.

“That would be welcome,” Laurent mumbles, propping himself up with difficulty.

Gemistus starts with Laurent’s boots, then moves to the ties at his wrists. After sliding off Laurent’s jacket, he says, “Forgive me, Your Highness, if it’s not my place, but—” Gemistus stops short.

Laurent quirks a brow, intrigued. “Go on.”

“I think that you and the Akielon Heir are a lovely match,” Gemistus says quickly, breathlessly. “I happened to see you together on the balcony. I’m sorry for intruding.”

Laurent blushes, embarrassed. “It’s alright,” he says.

Gemistus gazes up at him, oddly misty-eyed. “Valery told me that you’ve had your heart set on him for some time,” he says. “Since you were a boy.”

“Valery…told—?” Laurent exclaims, his blush deepening.

“Please don’t be ashamed, Your Highness,” Gemistus says. “I think it’s very romantic. And it’s obvious that the Heir feels the same way.”

Laurent doesn’t reply. _Damn Valery_, he thinks.

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I’ve overstepped my bounds,” Gemistus says.

Laurent sighs. He’s completely disrobed now, and oh, he’s exhausted. “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

Gemistus takes a moment to remove his own clothes. Then he douses the lamps, and climbs into bed with Laurent, pulling the covers over them both. “Will you go to Akielos?” he murmurs.

Laurent chuckles sleepily. “Things definitely aren’t that far along yet,” he says.

“But you want them to be,” says Gemistus.

Laurent’s heart squeezes. “Yes,” he replies softly. “I want them to be.”

Laurent and Damianos break for lunch on a flowery hillock, their mounts munching sweetgrass over by a stand of trees.

Laurent asks about Akielos. Damianos tells him about Mellos, and Isthima, and the grand palace at Ios. He talks of tournaments and sports, of vineyards and orange groves; he tells Laurent about his household, and his childhood. Laurent listens, and asks questions, and then listens some more. He wants to know everything about Damianos, and after a while he forgets to be nervous. “Maybe I can come to Akielos someday,” he says, his eyes crinkling.

“You would be welcome there,” Damianos tells him. “You have welcomed me here so often. I would love to return the favor.”

“Are you sure that Akielos is ready for a Veretian to come visiting?” Laurent asks.

“It will be difficult at first,” Damianos says. “It was for us, our first time here. But they’ll get used to it. They’ll have to. Our countries are at peace, and they’ll be at peace for a very long time.”

Laurent stares. “You think so?” he asks.

“As long as I have anything to say about it, yes,” Damianos says firmly.

Laurent keeps on staring. Then, slowly, he smiles.

“What?” Damianos asks. “You think I’m foolish?”

“No,” Laurent says, still smiling. “Not at all.”

They gaze at each other, a pause stretching between them. Somewhere nearby, a crow calls to its fellows. A light breeze ruffles their hair. Damianos’s eyes are deep and liquid, and his lips are slightly parted.

All at once, Laurent remembers to be nervous. He looks up at the cloudless sky, inhaling, then exhaling, his heart pounding harder than a wooden stick upon a drum. It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling. This would be a wonderful place to make love, he thinks suddenly: Rolling among the poppies under a wide, blue sky.

“Laurent,” Damianos says softly.

“Damen,” Laurent replies, equally soft.

Damianos smiles. “You’ve never called me that before,” he says.

“We’ve never gone riding just the two of us,” says Laurent.

“This is true,” Damianos replies, plucking one small, white flower from the hillside. He considers it for a moment before looking at Laurent. Then he draws closer, his thumb brushing Laurent’s temple as he tucks the flower behind Laurent’s ear.

Laurent, who has long since gone very still, flushes crimson, wishing more than anything that he could just kiss Damianos of Akielos on this hillside that smells of sun and wind and flowers.

“I want to kiss you,” Damianos says quietly.

In response, Laurent leans forward, catching Damianos’s chin with his fingers.

The instant their lips meet, a gust of wind rushes over the hillside, mussing their clothes about, and pushing their hair into each other’s faces. Damianos places a hand on Laurent’s waist, kissing him tenderly, reverently. One of the horses wickers. A snatch of music and laughter reaches them from far off. A small cloud passes just under the sun, briefly dousing their little hillock in shadow.

When they finally part, they remain in each other’s space, touching each other. Breathing each other in.

“I want to ask for your father’s permission,” Damianos says, “to court you.”

His chest swelling, Laurent runs a hand along Damianos’s cheek. Then he picks a flower from among the sweetgrass, and tucks it behind Damianos’s ear. “And I yours,” he replies.

✯

The surf laps at Damen’s ankles, a rogue breeze toying with a lock of his hair. A little ways down the beach is the sandcastle he and Laurent spent the day building. The sun is well past its zenith now, sinking ever lower, and limning the waves of the Ellosean sea in shades of gold. It’s beautiful. But Damen can think of something more so.

“Damen!” Laurent calls. He’s hurrying across the beach, leaving footprints in the sand, his eyes sparkling with reflected sunlight. He wears the chiton so well. When he reaches Damen’s side, he opens his palm, revealing a small, turquoise stone.

“It’s lovely,” remarks Damen, and it is: The stone is smooth and marbled, a deep, mossy green threaded with cerulean blues and inky blacks.

Laurent holds the stone to the hollow of Damen’s throat. “It would make a nice necklace, don’t you think?” he asks.

Damen smiles. “Is this to be a token?”

“Perhaps,” Laurent says, returning his smile.

Damen’s eyes sweep Laurent’s face, drinking in the details. His fair skin is starting to freckle a little, and his blond hair is wet with salt water. Damen takes Laurent’s free hand, bringing it to his lips. When he feels Laurent start to melt, he pulls him closer, kissing his way along Laurent’s cheek until his lips are right where he wants them.

As they kiss, Laurent makes a low, needy sound. It’s nearly drowned out by the sea; Damen feels it more than he hears it, and in response, he pushes his fingers into Laurent’s hair, tipping his head back, and kissing him more deeply. Laurent opens for him like a flower, his wandering hands sliding up Damen’s chest. The sun sinks lower.

They don’t really stop kissing; that’s not how they work. The pauses between kisses simply get longer.

“Let’s go back,” Laurent murmurs.

Damen glances up at the palace. He grins. “Race you,” he says.

Laurent’s eyes widen. Then he laughs loudly, and turns, heading for the dunes.

Damen is about to give chase when something in the sand catches his eye. He stoops. A rose pearl? No, not a pearl; it’s just a very polished, pink stone, but it’s beautiful all the same. How did something so perfect come to be here? Shaking his head in amazement, Damen closes his hand around the prize, then takes off after Laurent, clouds of sun-warmed sand flying up in his wake.

Some weeks later, lying in bed with Laurent after making love, Damen says, “I have a gift for you.”

Laurent eyes him sleepily, toying with the marbled stone at Damen’s throat. “But it’s not even my birthday,” he says.

“Are you complaining?” Damen asks, laughing. Then, after a soft, lingering kiss, he slides out of bed, and goes into the adjoining chamber. He returns with a long, satin bundle tied up with velvet.

When the wrappings are gone, Laurent goes very quiet, staring. A long moment later, he draws the sword from its scabbard, his expression full of wonder. Damen knows that Laurent has all sorts of fancy swords back home, but he doesn’t have anything like this: pure, Akielon steel, simple and unerringly balanced. A king’s sword.

“It’s beautiful,” Laurent says.

“I found this down by the water,” says Damen, indicating the pink stone set into the pommel, “the same day you found the stone for my necklace.”

Laurent is blushing. “Is this a token?” he asks.

“Of course,” Damen replies.

Exhaling, Laurent sheaths the sword, and sets it aside. Then he draws Damen to him.

They’re both still naked from earlier. Damen runs a hand up Laurent’s side, delighting in his noises, his shivers. He traces Laurent’s lips, cheek, and then his nose, aching with unfathomable tenderness. “I want to give you everything,” he says.

“I already have that,” Laurent responds.

They spend an eternity just kissing, exploring each other, and teasing each other with their hands. When the walls start to glow pink under the light of the setting sun, Laurent wraps his hand around Damen’s cock as well as his own, squeezing them together, and jerking them off as one. He takes care to go slow, watching Damen’s face through half-lidded eyes. In the distance, the sea crashes against the rocks with a sound like desire.

With a sudden, frustrated groan, Laurent pushes himself up, throwing a leg over Damen’s hip to straddle him. Laurent’s hole is still soft and slippery from earlier, and after a moment of maneuvering, he slides down onto Damen’s cock with a drawn-out sound.

“Oh, yes,” Damen purrs.

“Ah,” Laurent breathes, his thighs bunching as he starts to ride Damen up and down. “Damen.”

Damen lies back and watches, transfixed, and after a while, the sounds of the sea start to blend with the sounds of Laurent’s pleasure. Laurent’s hands are on Damen’s chest; Damen grips Laurent’s waist, guiding him up and down, and every now and again, he cants his hips up to meet him.

When Laurent looks like he’s close to coming, Damen flips him over and fucks him to climax with tender urgency. “So good, Laurent. Oh, yes. I love having you like this. I love you so much,” he murmurs.

“Ahh, yes,” Laurent breathes, his words dissolving into helpless moans, his fingers digging into Damen’s shoulders.

Hours later, after a wash and a nap, they stand side by side on the balcony, watching the moon’s ghostly reflection shimmer along the rolling waves. It’s amazingly easy, just being together. Laurent lifts Damen’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles one by one. Damen leans in, resting his chin atop Laurent’s head.

Laurent sighs. “It turns out that I don’t have everything I want,” he says.

Damen quirks a brow. “Oh?”

“We need a another palace,” Laurent says.

Damen grins. “I like the sound of this,” he says.

“I’m thinking… a palace on the border. You can still come to Arles, and I’ll still come to Ios,” says Laurent. “But a border palace will mean that we can see each other twice as often, won’t it?”

“Yes,” Damen purrs, nuzzling Laurent’s hair.

Laurent runs a hand up and down Damen’s chest. “We should build close to the sea, I think,” he says. “And we’ll need to think of a name. What about… ‘Peace?’”

The Akielon word for peace: ‘Irene.’ Damen says the word aloud, seeing their palace take shape in his mind. “It’s perfect,” he says.

Laurent smiles. Then he cups Damen’s face, and they kiss slow and sweet. After all, there’s no need to rush—not with a lifetime ahead of them.

**Author's Note:**

> so haha I actually wrote this story in 2017 and just now found it and looked it over. I think I never published it because I thought it was bad, lol. Well, you be the judge of that. PS. I am really fond of my OC bed-slaves, Gemistus and Valery... I imagine them hooking up and eventually falling in love... :3


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